Why does this exist?

Two days ago, my Eva finally decided on a Halloween costume.  A blueberry pancake.  Yep.  So, while trying to imagine how I'm going to create this walking version of her 16th favorite breakfast treat, I turned to Pinterest.  Color me surprised that my child isn't the first person to think of such a thing!  Scrolling down the page, I found that there are several manufactured versions of a pancake costume and a few ideas for how I can make one myself.  Then, this popped up...

Naughty Nemo.  Why does a naughty nemo costume exist?  Who watched this animated movie and thought, "yeah, I'd totally do that fish!"  Or...

"Know what turns me on?!  A mythical horse with one too many appendages!"  Or...

"Yeah, Harry Potter is sexy!" Or...

"Well. If you're going to hell anyway, might as well go big."  Or...

Mmmmm....Elmo.  Seriously, what kind of freaks are living in the alleys of Sesame Street nowadays?!  Or...

Please remind me to take a closer look at those I invite to my next family barbecue.  Because, if you're eyeballing the corn this closely, you should be on some kind of federal watch list.  Or...and this is probably my favorite...

Yes, my friends, she is a Naughty Bathtub.  A naughty bathtub.  Pretty sure that's one clogged drain away from an overflowing toilet.

Why do these costumes exist?  And, they're not just one creative chick's late night craft idea.  They are mass produced for public consumption.  That means, if you have too much vodka one night and stumble into a Halloween party dressed in your polyester preschool fantasy whore outfit, there's a good (?) chance you won't be the only pedophile tease tossing back Jell-O shots.  Remember the good old days when you could only be a naughty nurse or a French maid?  Ah, the simpler days, when men didn't lust after bathtubs or slices of pizza.  The days when it was less child trafficker and more secretary rendezvous.

So, I will travel the streets this year with my zombie and pancake.  Thankful that no one has found a way to turn these things into street walking rainmakers...

Yes, I googled "naughty pancake costume" and have never been more thankful to google images for chocolate stacks of pancakes.  Give it time, I predict it will be a best seller next year.

 

In the mirror sometimes...

I don't sleep much anymore.  It's really always been a problem, but lately it's gotten worse.  So, by the time I stumble through my bedtime routine, it's well past the hour of humility.  It is on these late nights, that I find myself looking more intently into and upon myself.

This face, smudged with a life even I can't sometimes believe, haunts me from the bathroom mirror.  The dark circles formed by years of self accepted abuse and the genetics of disapproval.  The caverns carved between eyebrows too often cocked in question and mock-disbelief.  The skin damage earned by a childhood spent basking in the sunlight with friends I wish I could still call to come out and play.  The lips full of held back emotion, softened by the loss of passion.  And these eyes that once sparkled for such a short time, but now lie dormant and beaten.

I see the scars I gathered as souvenirs and wonder how I will add to the collection.  I try to imagine all the new pain I will earn and plan where to stow away those memories.  So much of me has been used well past the point of warranty.  So much is beyond repair.

But these hands hold my children when they race in for comfort.  These breasts soak up the tears of innocence and love.  This waist is home base for a girl hiding from the real world.  And, these feet carry me in the circles I'm spinning in the name of progress.

Don't hide the madness, I whisper to my reflection.  It's ok to fall apart tonight.  It will all look different in the morning.

And, in the darkness of the early morning, I gather up my tools to paint a fresh view.  Covering the darkness and the lines and the scars of the night, I submit to the new day's promise.  No longer hopeful, but comfortable in the known.  

Because, sometimes, staring back at the end of the day is the face of a stranger I once knew.  Sometimes, I still call her out to play.   And, one night, she just might rest in the dreams of a quiet peace.   

Sideline Mama

Orange slices at halftime.  Granola bars and flavored water for post-game treats.... Unless we got assigned the last game, then it is cupcakes.  Hot coffee for early morning games, iced coffee for the rare warm weather games.  Water jugs or Disney bottles for the girls.  

Four different "soccer mama" shirts, emblazoned with my player's name on the back, so there can be no doubt.  Four different buttons (two soccer, one dance, one basketball) weighing down my jacket. Parked at the midfield line - or "my spot", as it is always known.  Proud.

I am that mama.  You know her.  The one who cannot sit still.  The one coaching from the wrong side of the field.  The one giving you a headache, two games away from yours.  The one jumping for joy when her kid scores a goal.  The one who never says two words outside of the soccer fields, but can't shut up about how incredible her kid and her kid's team is.  The one who always looks angry, except...

 

I like sports sometimes.  I never miss a Super Bowl, watched every single game Michael Jordan played from 1996 to when he retired the first time, catch every KU basketball game I can, and used to watch a lot of boxing.  I'm telling you, I can sit and enjoy a good game of almost any kind.  But I live for watching my kids play sports.  

Every Saturday morning...and Wednesday night practice...and Thursday night practice...and Saturday afternoon camp.  Every season.  Indoor and outdoor.  Soccer...tball...volleyball...basketball...cross country...tennis.

You know those crazy ladies who won't chit chat during the games... the ones who aren't there to socialize or make friends...the ones who abandon their chairs to stalk up and down the sidelines shouting encouragement (or directions in Spanish so the other players don't know what they're saying)... the ones who seem to live and die with every touch of the ball?  Yes, we know we look a little crazy.  We know you want us to sit down and shut up.  We see you rolling your eyes and whispering to each other that it's just a game.

And, you're right..it is just a game.  But it's a game that makes our kid feel like a superstar.  It's a game that brought our struggling girl out of her cocoon and into the limelight of accomplishment.  It's a game that we have shivered in the cold through, or bought new cleats for, or woke up extra early to get to, or practiced after school every day to prepare for, or wore the lucky socks to.

Or, maybe it is just a game.  Maybe it's silly that her and I wore out the net in our driveway getting her touch so comfortable she doesn't have to think about it anymore.  Maybe it is ridiculous that I run out onto the field like she won the World Cup when I've watched her play her heart out for an hour on a crisp, October morning.  Maybe you're doing it right in your chair, on your phone, only half watching your child being a kid.

But, last Saturday, I missed the first game since Sofia was in kindergarten.  And, my Eva scored the first goal I ever didn't stand up to cheer for.  She called me at work to tell me all about it:

"I looked at your spot when you weren't yelling, mama.  And then I remembered you weren't there.  It was weird and I missed you."

So, next time you wonder why the crazy lady on the sideline won't treat this like another chore she is forced into by her child....the next time you have to move your chair further down the sidelines because she's cheering louder than you are...the next time you're tired and cranky and cold on a soccer sideline: remember that there's a kid on the field looking for her.

And then remember that she's cheering for your kid too.  She'll race to the bench after the game to make sure she tells every kid on the team what a great job they did.  And she will mean it.  And, at the last practice of the season, when it's kids vs parents, she will whoop up on your kid.  Just to prove she can...just to show there's a reason they should listen to her coaching from the wrong side of the field...just to earn her spot at the midfield line.

"I DON'T WANNA GO TO SCHOOL!!!!!"

"DON'T MAKE ME GO!!!!!"

"I JUST WANNA STAY HOME WITH YOU!!!!"

Every school morning since I started the new job, this is what is yelled at me until we hit the sidewalk outside of the building.

"Please, mama....."

"I'll be good and we can take a nap..."

"No one is nice to me...they make fun of me....they won't play with me...."

"I wanna go home."

Every school morning since I started the new job, this is stuck between big, sad tears and fingers white from squeezing my hand.

She plants her feet like a mule.  I drag her by her backpack straps.  

She turns and walks back toward the car.  I chase her down and carry her while she does the "limp noodle" I thought she had abandoned years ago.  

Every morning, for a week, we have our showdown on the first grade hall.   And, every morning, I claim the empty victory of leaving my baby in tears with relative strangers who can't understand the pain we're feeling.

Yesterday, after completing her reading assignment, Maya decided to read another book to me while I made dinner.

Yeah, she's not one for subtlety.

Mama mama misses Maya too.

Words

I crave words more than I gasp for air.

Hello.

I need you.

I miss you.

Goodbye.

I'm sorry.

Where are you?

I miss you.

I didn't mean to.

I love you.

I'm on my way.

You were it.

I was wrong.

I miss you.

You were wrong.

I miss you.

Again.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I don't need pictures or scents or the empty taste of kisses.  I long for the words formed by voices I've forgotten.  And, my soul reaches for the phrases I held back.

Hello.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

No.

You are right.

One more time.

You are it for me.

Please don't go.

I didn't mean it.

Goodbye.

I need you.

Just go.

The indentation of all the words I refused to say lays on my tongue, a scar marking the place my heart lies broken.  So many words bitten back by fear that my bleeding tongue knows nothing but pain, refuses to let flow any kindness for fear of being hurt again.

Yes, I'm a lover of words - given and received.  Harsh and comforting.  Warm and bitter.  But never held from the ears left begging for more.

Say it like you mean it

Teach your kids to apologize.

From the time they could speak.... Well, really from the time they could do something that required an "I'm sorry" (which for one of them came very soon after her first word), I have taught my children how to apologize.  Because, and pay attention here, it's so much more than a "sorry" mumbled through clenched teeth while staring off into space.

They look you in the eye and they say nice and clearly for all to hear "I'm sorry for ___________".

They take as long as they need to mean it.  If that takes all night, that's ok.  But life, for them, stops until it happens.

If they throw attitude at their mama from the table, they leave the table.  They may not come back to dinner until they look me in the eye and say "I'm sorry, mama, for making a big deal about the steamed carrots.".  

If they roll their eyes and tell their sister that she talks too much when she's trying to tell them something "exciting" about the day, they leave the room.  They may not rejoin the group until they look the sister in the eye and say without a hint of irony, "I'm sorry I was rude.".

I find all of these steps to be very important.  

Leaving the room first gives everyone a chance to calm down.  It also removes the offender from my line of sight so that, if they continue their behavior, I don't see it and they don't get in further trouble.

Looking people in the eye is just good form, but it also makes it harder to hide from the affect you had.  In addition, it forces the person who was wronged to take the apology seriously.  Sometimes it's hard to accept an apology, especially one given as soon as the damage was done.  By making them look you in the eye, you're forcing yourself to take their words.  

Describing what you're apologizing for might be the most important part.  No, you're not sorry that you might have hurt my feelings or that I took what you did wrong or that I left my favorite stuffed animal out for you to kick across the room.  You're sorry that you did something wrong and you are accepting responsibility.  Often, the person who was wronged offers their own apology for whatever part they played.

And, finally, say it like you mean it.  No attitude, no sarcasm, no mumbling.  There are certain combinations of words that should always be said loud and clear.  "I'm sorry" is definitely one of them.

So, teach your kids to apologize.  Then teach them to accept an apology and move on.

There's nothing quite like the first words out of your child's mouth after school being "I'm sorry I was mean to you this morning, mama.  I didn't mean to make you sad.  I'll do better tomorrow."  Those simple sentences erased seven hours of unease and worry.  And they get to hear, "That's alright, love.  We all have bad mornings.  Let's forget about it."

Too many people don't know how to be sorry.  Too many people refuse to take responsibility when they make a mistake.  I know three people who are being raised to do better.  I can't stop them from doing wrong; however, I can teach them to recognize a misstep and go back to repair the damage.  And, that's even better.

Day one - done

Before I even got out of the car after my first day at the new job, I was mobbed by my three favorite girls.  Squeezes and smooches gave way to homework and studying with relative ease.  They sat down to dinner, and we did our normal dinnertime question.  It was almost too smooth.  We almost forgot that everything had changed.

Then Maya remembered.  I know this because she had a complete breakdown at the idea of doing it again today.  So, after her bath, we snuggled up together and took deep breaths.  She pressed her baby soft face to my chest and wrapped her tiny little arms around my waist.  And she cried big, sadly quiet tears while her still wet hair hid my own heartbreak.

I love you, mami.  It's all going to be alright.

Ok, mama.

This morning, she was stuck to me like glue.  Just like when she was a toddler, she sat on my feet while I washed the breakfast dishes.  Just like the first day of school, it took a few extra moments to let go of my hand.  Just like every time her papi takes them for the weekend, she came back for another kiss.

I'm sorry I cried, mama.  I know you don't want to leave us.  It'll all be alright.

I'm sorry it has to be like this, love.  But, yes, it will all be just fine.

So, we survived day one.  One small step, one giant leap.

Show up

This isn't about anyone but me.  I'm not comparing my experience/life/status/feelings/failures/thoughts to anyone else's.  I know millions of parents do it every day.  This isn't about those millions...it's about this one.

Since Sofia was three.

In blistering heat, bone chilling cold, pouring down rain, blinding snow, sickness, health, with a newborn, with a toddler, with a newborn and a toddler, in long car lines, through heavy foot traffic, two different preschools, two different elementary schools, and a middle school.

Hours after being released from the hospital with a baby.

On my way to being admitted for emergency surgery.

More than 2,176 afternoons.

Covered in stress sweat from worrying I'd be late.

Covered in flour from working all day in the kitchen.

All done up for date night.

With not a stitch of makeup and sweats.

Without exception.

For more than nine years.

I have always been the first face the youngest sees when the school doors open.  Always.  Not until they were in three different schools did Sofia have to wait for me after school.  Not until just this year did Eva have to walk to me instead of being greeted at her door.  And, not until today will that streak be broken.

I'm the mama who gets to the school more than thirty minutes early to ensure I get to be the smile that welcomes the end of the girls' school day.  And, everyone has always teased me so much over it.  "I'm just anal," I have always replied.  I am,  but that's not the real reason I take my place at the front of the school pickup line.  Here's the truth:  in my whole childhood, I can't remember a single time I was sure my mother would get me when she was supposed to.  I can't count the number of times she forgot me at daycare.  I was always the kid left with the one tired teacher who just wanted to go home but couldn't because my ride wasn't there.  And, by the time I was seven, I was going home to an empty house.  Sometimes my mother would get there before I went to bed, but most of the time she went to the bar instead.  I've never had anyone I could count on to show up.  So, being the first person my girls see when the doors open is my tiny way of trying to show them that they can depend on me.  That they can be secure knowing mama is there.  Always.

Until I break that promise today.

Today, I start a job that takes me away from the school doors every afternoon.  Today, when the bell rings, I won't be smiling at Maya's 1st grade door.  When Eva rounds the corner, she won't see mama walking toward her.  And, Sofia won't wait on the corner for my car.  Today, I will let them down.  Not for the first time, but definitely in a way none of us is ready for.

Eva and Maya cried when I told them.  They worry about things I hadn't even considered.  Who's going to make dinner?  Do we have to do our homework without you?  What about our snacks? Can we still play outside?  Is it every day?  And, I have cried every night since I accepted the job.  My only role every afternoon since Sofia started preschool was to show up.

Today, I won't do that.

Today, they won't find me outside the doors.

Today, I won't hold their hands on the walk home.

Today, everything changes.

Today, I let them down.

Today, I won't show up.

I never wanted to be my mother.  Today, I take a step in that direction.